


all these things we'll one day swallow whole

by Grave



Series: Kiss/Shag/Touch Fic Meme [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fake Marriage, M/M, beware of the psychopaths, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grave/pseuds/Grave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic Meme Prompts:<br/>Chapter 1 - Desperate Kiss/Touch<br/>Chapter 2 - Playful Kiss<br/>Chapter 3 - Sleepy Shag</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Set post season 2 - Will and Matthew are joining forced to hunt down Hannibal in Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the request! This plays in a canon divergent (OR IS IT) AU, where Will gets healthy again after the very dramatic season finale and thinks #YOLO #F*CKTHEPOLICE Let’s team up with Matthew Brown (who says of course YES and finds this idea of a honey moon very creative and romantic. <3) and hunt Hannibal down. Can you call it an AU already when we technically don’t know if this is not going to be true? WELL. You know this future vision is very, very therapeutic for me. REVEEEENGE! 
> 
> I hope you like it?
> 
> BEWARE how one of the oldest, cheesiest FF tropes gets used in a fairly serious context!! I am not above using bad tropes!

_One time he dreams of a hawk circling over his head while dead fish float between his legs. His river is polluted. The water a thick, brown sludge. It reaches up to his chest, to high to fish. It rises in an ever swelling flood._

 

_One moment it is dead fish, he blinks and he sees faces that should be familiar, and it is shoulders and heads and thighs bumping against his calves, forcing him to stumble and clawing away on his festering intestines._

_Empty eyes are staring up at him, glassed over and milky._

 

_The world around him is slowly decaying but there is a hawk, flying constant circles, round and round above his head and the hawk is very alive. He takes one hand away from his guts and lifts it above his head._

 

Come here _, he whispers,_ come here, my hawk.

 

_The animal cries. For a moment he thinks that it will defy his command, but then it sinks down slowly until it lands on his bare arm, talons clawing into his unprotected skin. One drop colors the whole river red.It’s beautiful animal. Nuzzling with tender care the animal stares at him with two pearls of pitch black eyes._

 

_After being alone for so long - where did it come from?_

 

_The hawk turns it head and Will follows his gaze to the carcass of the black deer. The river has bloated it’s body, it has been gutted and empty, the ribs laid bare. It’s the source of his demise._

 

 

*

 

When Will opens his eyes the light is dim in the room but still too bright. There is a second presence close, another person just out of his field of vision. He knows he is in hospital, he has already awoken a few times but quickly drifted in and out of consciousness again.

 

It is hard to pinpoint where reality begins and the dream ends.

 

»Mr. Graham.« 

 

There appears a face above him. 

 

_Matthew Brown_ , he says or wants to say, his voice fails him along the way, his throat too dry and tongue too heavy. This man was supposed tobe dead, his mind supplies.

 

_Hawks are solitary. That’s their weakness._

 

His eyes follow the young man as he circles the bed before he finally settles and Will can feel the bed shift underneath him as Matthew sits down besides him, very close but not touching.He wears the uniform of a security night guard. 

 

»I am very sorry. I didn’t manage what you asked me to do and I thought I have lost you, Mr. Graham.« Matthew speaks so quietly like he tries to tell Will a secret no one was allowed to hear, not even the empty room with the solitary beep of the machine checking for his life signs. (His heart beats, but he cannot feel it anymore.) »I thought I failed. And you would be gone.«, he repeats and reaches out with a hand. Fingers dance so close over the naked skin of his arm, up to his throat and his jaw line, that he can feel the barest whisper of a touch.

 

The most curious thing is that Matthew looks truly desolate, truly desperate as if he was waiting for a sign of recognition. Forgiveness. Absolution.

 

This man shouldn’t be here, not in this room. 

 

»I am very glad you are not dead.« Such misplaced innocence. Like the innocence of the predator who cannot be held accountable for a crime that lies in its nature. 

 

_Imagine if hawks started working together._

 

Matthew leans further down over him, shielding all the light from the lamp above until he is just a dark silhouetterendered by a liquid glow. A kiss gets pressed on his lips. It is such a brief and fleeting thing. It disappears before it can take a concrete shape. ´

 

 »I will watch out for you and wait until you can fly again.«

 

*

 

_He strokes over the soft feathers until the bird closes its eyes and presses into his palm, talons shifting and ripping open new wounds. He smiles._

 

We have something to hunt, my hawk, you and I _, he breaths into the sharp beak,_ I don’t have patience anymore _._

 


	2. Chapter 2

The coffee between Will’s hands has already grown lukewarm at best as he sits on one of the bright orange, plastic chairs in the general waiting area of the airport. To his left there is a man with his son. They are looking outside through the large glass front that offers a view over therunway, watching how the plains take off and land.The father talks about the different airlines, where they come from, where they will probably go, how the mechanics of a plain work. The boy is maybe about five and doesn’t really listen.To his right an Indian woman has sunken down in her chair, sleeping. Behind him, a loud, obnoxious German family that is giving him a headache.

He turns the cup in his hands, watches the rain slide down the glass and how the lights of the airport break in them. 

 

For the second time there is a loudspeaker announced, asking Mr. And Mr. Smith to please come to boarding.

 

Slowly Will is getting nervous. He had been sitting in one place too long, when every fibre of his body wants to run, to _keep moving_. He had been trapped inside a bed for too long, had gone  nearly insane in the time he needed to wait until two different sets of scars finally grew strong enough to walk again.

The people around him make him feel claustrophobic, they make him nauseas with how loud they are broadcasting their feelings - the stress, the exhaustion, the nervousness, the anxieties. Again and again Will turns the cup in his hand, the nail of his thumb scratching over the riffled pale cardboard band that is supposed to keep it hot for longer and his fingers from burning. It had done a pretty decent job but Will had found it to nice to press his pinky and ring fingeragainst the hot bottomuntil he couldn’t feel his fingertips anymore. 

 

»Babe, what are you doing, we’re late!«

Suddenly the cup gets taken out his hands. He would have probably noticed someone approaching if he hadn’t been trying to blend out his surrounding. 

 

Matthew is standing in front of him and takes a sip from the stolen coffee, pulling a disgusted face when he realizes it is already past cold. He looks ridiculous in his get up - the trendy jeans, the hip shirt and cardigan combination, the woolen hoodie with brown hair peeking out underneath it - this whole get up of young, average, trustworthy, modern American man. He was so good at copying people that even the posture was down to perfection. But even the fake glasses he is wearing cannot hide the unhinged giddiness, that unspoiled joy of sharing a silent joke with Will, creeping at the edges of his gold browneyes.

 

»Where have you been?« Before Will can even finish the question he is handed a passport that looks too new to be his. He opens it on the first page.

Adam Smith. Next to the name a picture of him. 

 

There is a way that Matthew smiles that is all in his eyes and only in the tight lip curl of his mouth. By now he knows that it’s not how he smiles when all the layers get peeled off and it’s the predator living in a land of prey, having found one mate, who he deemed to be equal. This is studied, this is measured, this is trained and never fully mastered but the eyes, they shine as he leans down and presses a kiss to Will’s lips, playful but with teeth behind it. 

 Will’s head snaps back with a painful hiss. There is blood on the tip of his tongue. It hasn’t been long enough that the taste wouldn’t let bile rise up in his throat. He is equal parts torn between punching him the face for this and other unspeakable things that take clearer and clearer shape every night he spends together with that man.  

 

»You know we said, babe, to meet in ten minutes at the passport control.«, Matthew softly admonishes, before he drags him up and out of his seat. He is having too much fun with this. There is a swing in his step so childish and carefree that bailiffs pierced by antlers appear like a distant, detached prank. 

 

 

 

 

Will doesn’t know how Matthew did it. No how he got them on the machine, not how he got in such short notice apparently two fake passports. Neither is he really interested or thinks he should be. They pass by the large queue at the regular passport control and get ushered through another door. The fast lane. Will stands slightly off behind while Matthew has the stage of his life.  

 

The man controlling their passports doesn’t even lift his gaze to look at them once, but Will can sneak a glance at Matthew’s passportand sees there - Jonathan Smith. It takes a lot not to roll his eyes and instead smile pleasantly while he feels trapped in an absurd cabaret. 

 

 

 

 

»Was that all fucking necessary?«, Will asks, somewhere in the sky above the Atlantic ocean. Matthew had gradually, ever so innocently sunken further down in his seat until he leaned his head against his shoulder. Will knows he is awake. Indeed amber eyes halfway and fix on him from the corner.

 

»I am just enjoying my present, Will.«

 

»This is not a damn… _present_.«, he pressed out between clenched teeth. It was the farthest away from his mind.

 This was supposed to be an alliance.

 A hunting party.

The shape of what this is makes a lot of sense in his dreams, but not so much in reality. Reality is messy. 

 

Matthew chuckles softly, his hot breath suddenly tickling over Will’s neck as he shifts in his seat, his side pressed to Will’s, his nose and lips barely an inch away from hisjawline. Close enough to bite. Close enough to kiss. »Oh, but it is. For me. And I believe it will be a present that will just keep on giving.«

 

The worst part is, that Will cannot bring himself to protest.

In reality he is not sure what they are without wings.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The coffee between Will’s hands has already grown lukewarm at best as he sits on one of the bright orange, plastic chairs in the general waiting area of the airport. To his left there is a man with his son. They are looking outside through the large glass front that offers a view over therunway, watching how the plains take off and land.The father talks about the different airlines, where they come from, where they will probably go, how the mechanics of a plain work. The boy is maybe about five and doesn’t really listen.To his right an Indian woman has sunken down in her chair, sleeping. Behind him, a loud, obnoxious German family that is giving him a headache.

He turns the cup in his hands, watches the rain slide down the glass and how the lights of the airport break in them. 

 

For the second time there is a loudspeaker announced, asking Mr. And Mr. Smith to please come to boarding.

 

Slowly Will is getting nervous. He had been sitting in one place too long, when every fibre of his body wants to run, to _keep moving_. He had been trapped inside a bed for too long, had gone  nearly insane in the time he needed to wait until two different sets of scars finally grew strong enough to walk again.

The people around him make him feel claustrophobic, they make him nauseas with how loud they are broadcasting their feelings - the stress, the exhaustion, the nervousness, the anxieties. Again and again Will turns the cup in his hand, the nail of his thumb scratching over the riffled pale cardboard band that is supposed to keep it hot for longer and his fingers from burning. It had done a pretty decent job but Will had found it to nice to press his pinky and ring fingeragainst the hot bottomuntil he couldn’t feel his fingertips anymore. 

 

»Babe, what are you doing, we’re late!«

Suddenly the cup gets taken out his hands. He would have probably noticed someone approaching if he hadn’t been trying to blend out his surrounding. 

 

Matthew is standing in front of him and takes a sip from the stolen coffee, pulling a disgusted face when he realizes it is already past cold. He looks ridiculous in his get up - the trendy jeans, the hip shirt and cardigan combination, the woolen hoodie with brown hair peeking out underneath it - this whole get up of young, average, trustworthy, modern American man. He was so good at copying people that even the posture was down to perfection. But even the fake glasses he is wearing cannot hide the unhinged giddiness, that unspoiled joy of sharing a silent joke with Will, creeping at the edges of his gold browneyes.

 

»Where have you been?« Before Will can even finish the question he is handed a passport that looks too new to be his. He opens it on the first page.

Adam Smith. Next to the name a picture of him. 

 

There is a way that Matthew smiles that is all in his eyes and only in the tight lip curl of his mouth. By now he knows that it’s not how he smiles when all the layers get peeled off and it’s the predator living in a land of prey, having found one mate, who he deemed to be equal. This is studied, this is measured, this is trained and never fully mastered but the eyes, they shine as he leans down and presses a kiss to Will’s lips, playful but with teeth behind it. 

 Will’s head snaps back with a painful hiss. There is blood on the tip of his tongue. It hasn’t been long enough that the taste wouldn’t let bile rise up in his throat. He is equal parts torn between punching him the face for this and other unspeakable things that take clearer and clearer shape every night he spends together with that man.  

 

»You know we said, babe, to meet in ten minutes at the passport control.«, Matthew softly admonishes, before he drags him up and out of his seat. He is having too much fun with this. There is a swing in his step so childish and carefree that bailiffs pierced by antlers appear like a distant, detached prank. 

 

 

 

 

Will doesn’t know how Matthew did it. No how he got them on the machine, not how he got in such short notice apparently two fake passports. Neither is he really interested or thinks he should be. They pass by the large queue at the regular passport control and get ushered through another door. The fast lane. Will stands slightly off behind while Matthew has the stage of his life.  

 

The man controlling their passports doesn’t even lift his gaze to look at them once, but Will can sneak a glance at Matthew’s passportand sees there - Jonathan Smith. It takes a lot not to roll his eyes and instead smile pleasantly while he feels trapped in an absurd cabaret. 

 

 

 

 

»Was that all fucking necessary?«, Will asks, somewhere in the sky above the Atlantic ocean. Matthew had gradually, ever so innocently sunken further down in his seat until he leaned his head against his shoulder. Will knows he is awake. Indeed amber eyes halfway and fix on him from the corner.

 

»I am just enjoying my present, Will.«

 

»This is not a damn… _present_.«, he pressed out between clenched teeth. It was the farthest away from his mind.

 This was supposed to be an alliance.

 A hunting party.

The shape of what this is makes a lot of sense in his dreams, but not so much in reality. Reality is messy. 

 

Matthew chuckles softly, his hot breath suddenly tickling over Will’s neck as he shifts in his seat, his side pressed to Will’s, his nose and lips barely an inch away from hisjawline. Close enough to bite. Close enough to kiss. »Oh, but it is. For me. And I believe it will be a present that will just keep on giving.«

 

The worst part is, that Will cannot bring himself to protest.

In reality he is not sure what they are without wings.

 


End file.
